I Follow
by KLMeri
Summary: Sam wants nothing more than to save his brother, until the day he realizes Jim never needed saving. - COMPLETE
1. Part One

**Title**: I Follow (1/2)  
**Author**: klmeri  
**Fandom**: Star Trek AOS  
**Characters**: Sam Kirk, Jim Kirk, others  
**Warnings**: mentions of child abuse  
**Summary**: Sam wants nothing more than to save his brother, until the day he realizes Jim never needed saving.  
**A/N**: Sam started telling me about his life late Tuesday, and he continued to talk all through the night, in my dreams and into the following morning. He had a lot to say about a destiny I hadn't imagined could be his. It turns everything on its head. This is his story.  
*Side Note: In this version of AOS, Jim and Sam are a little over two years apart in age. Also, it's part of canon in the AOS universe (created by Abrams) that Sam left when Jim was approximately eleven to live with their grandfather (refer to IDW's On-Going comic series); but before this reveal, it was generally assumed Sam ran away without a clear destination in mind. I'm going on that principle, except with things slightly "altered".

* * *

_Sam is a hard worker. He simply cannot be anything else, given a disastrous mistake he made when he was young. In the end, though, his diligence does not help him survive. He is George Samuel Kirk; the fate is in his name. An omen, Sam told a friend once. His parents thought they were naming him for greatness. Instead they cursed him. That is why, for Sam, the final unfortunate turn of events in his life comes as no surprise._

* * *

His mother stays away from home for long stretches of time. Why wouldn't she? her thirteen year-old son thinks. He lost her child. There is only grief here to greet her.

Sam tries to be a better person anyway. His flunking grades turn into near-perfect scores. He doesn't slink home past curfew with bloody knuckles or bruised eyes from after-school fights. He's such a model student that all of his teachers marvel at the transformation.

Well, not all of them. Some of them still say, whispering loud enough that he can hear them, "He's trying, god bless 'im, but it won't make up for what's been done." One day in the open school yard to a new faculty hire, the wagging tongues tattle with ease. "Don't you know about the Kirk boy? Let his younger brother wander off. Ruined that family, it did."

When they realize he is listening—all of the students are listening—their mouths snap shut like bear traps, but the damage has already been done. For years afterward, Sam cannot look his classmates in the eyes.

Without his mother, the good behavior seems like a waste; yet Sam doesn't have the heart to still his obsession. It no longer becomes a matter of catching her attention, of making her life a little easier, since she isn't around to notice. He does it because he is young and there is nothing else he can think of to do. Some kids believe he is full of pride and jeer at him for it. Sam doesn't correct them, doesn't tell them he has no pride left, only this penance.

Frank, the parental figure left in Sam's life in his mother's stead, is no less of a louse now that Jimmy is gone. He hits Sam like before, not two days after Winona has taken to space again with a frightening deadness in her eyes, and Sam lets him. Maybe Frank realizes then Sam is hurting in a way that he can't match with his fists. Over the next few months, the abuse dwindles along with Frank's interest in terrorizing a hollow-eyed child. By the time Sam is moving on to a new grade in school, his stepfather is absent too, staying gone a lot of days or sleeping in a drunken mess on the living room sofa when he is around. Sam drifts from room to room of the old farmhouse, present only in the odd creaks of the floor boards and the idle breeze that stirs the curtains at the windows.

It's no life, really, and he knows it. Just the same it's the only life he has, one he has to bear.

So he does, shaping a plan in the long hours he spends looking at the starlight beyond the corn fields. Jimmy can't be gone forever. Sam will find him, and this terrible knot in his chest will lessen. His mother will be able to stay in the same room with him, to call him by his name, once again. It's about penance, yes, and redemption and restoring what they all lost the day Sam came home without his brother.

In that moment, his studiousness gains a true purpose. The only way for Sam to find Jimmy is to follow him into space. To search every star, every colony, every cranny of the galaxy that a person would want to hide in. And to get himself into space, the path for Sam is obvious.

With long-standing anticipation, in his eighteenth year, George Samuel Kirk applies to Starfleet Academy in San Francisco. The application is accepted without question.

* * *

Life is easier in the Academy. The campus sees Sam Kirk, son of the hero George, and that he can handle. There is no mention of Jimmy from anyone, but Sam isn't foolish enough to think no one knows of his burden. He is proven right, of course, the week after orientation when a summons comes from one of the counselors in Health and Wellness.

The day of his appointment, Sam is not nervous. His answers have been well-practiced since the age of sixteen. Upon entering the center, he gives the receptionist his name in a quiet undertone and takes the only available empty seat in the waiting room amidst a sea of other red uniforms. No one around him looks pleased at their circumstances. Sam keeps his eyes focused on the floor between his shoes.

"How bad is it?" a rough voice says.

Sam transfers his gaze to look at a pair of uniform boots on his right.

"My smell," the guy next to him clarifies. "How bad is it?"

Sam looks at the owner of the voice. "I don't smell anything."

"Thank god," mutters the man, slumping into his seat and closing his eyes.

Sam notes how wrinkled the cadet's uniform is, like it had been slept in, and how unkempt his appearance is with a shaggy haircut and the scruff of a two-day old beard. Within Sam, a small spark of curiosity flares, causing him to ask, "What are you in for?"

The man peeks open one eye and snorts at Sam. "What is this—the principal's office in grade school?"

Sam looks away, remembering belatedly that socializing never works in his favor. "Never mind," he says tersely.

The silence of the waiting room stretches, broken only by the shuffling of feet and the occasional intercom call of the receptionist as she beckons a cadet to the next available counselor. Sam has closed his eyes to gain an illusion of aloneness, but that illusion is suddenly shattered when the cadet in the chair beside his, the one with the sarcasm that bites, murmurs, "Sorry I snapped at ya."

Sam shrugs his shoulders minutely.

The scratchy drawl persists. "I don't have any reason to be here, and these idiots know it."

_Same here, _Sam thinks. He swallows down the words, though.

"I'd know if I got a problem." Now the man sounds angry. "'N I don't!"

Sam wonders who is really sitting next to him. His eyes open of their own accord; his mouth moves, too. "Sometimes, through no fault of our own, we don't have a choice. I'm here because I'm a Kirk." He smiles humorlessly.

"Is Kirk a first or last name?"

Sam looks askance at him but offers, "Last. People call me Sam."

"Well, Sam Kirk, nice to meet you. Name's McCoy—Leonard McCoy."

Sam shakes the proffered hand. As McCoy's arm moves, the flap of his unbuttoned jacket shifts to reveal an object tucked in the curve of McCoy's armpit where no one might see it.

"Is that a flask?" Sam asks, incredulous.

McCoy grins. "Care for a drink?"

"_George Samuel Kirk_," the intercom says in the receptionist's voice. "_Please report to Room 345._"

McCoy tucks the flap back over the top of the flask. He gives Sam a sloppy two-fingered salute. "Well, no drink for you looks like. Big Brother calls." He eyes Sam one last time, remarking in the world's driest tone, "Give 'em hell, kid."

The door to the waiting room opens to reveal a person who only looks old enough to be a graduate student tapping her clipboard impatiently. With a touch of dismay, Sam leaves McCoy and the flask of rebellion behind.

It turns out the counselor doesn't know about Jimmy and doesn't care to know. He asks Sam a few boring questions about his life goals and his motivation to join Starfleet, checking boxes as he goes, and fifteen minutes later dismisses Sam with a pass for the class he missed. But not without a warning.

"You'll have a session like this once every semester until you graduate so don't be surprised, Mr. Kirk."

"Why?"

"It's a mandate from upper management—your advisor," the counselor tells him blandly.

Sam mulls over that answer as an assistant hurries him out to make room for the next appointment but cannot understand it. Like the other new recruits, he hasn't been signed an advisor yet.

It's a mystery that will have to wait to be solved.

* * *

Sam runs into Leonard McCoy two months later by chance on his way towards the exit of one of the student cafeterias. At first, Sam almost doesn't recognize who he bumped into, not until McCoy catches his arm and looks right at him, saying, "Hey, it's you. Kirk!"

"Sam," he supplies, tugging his arm out of the man's hold. McCoy looks completely different; his hair is neatly trimmed and his jaw is clean-shaven. The cadet uniform has had the touch of an iron recently. Without thinking Sam adds, "You don't smell bad today."

The joke takes a second to register but when it does McCoy laughs loudly. "No, I suppose not," he says with a hint of a grin once he has quieted down. "Been moderately sober for forty-one days. My roommate actually talks to me now that I'm not a slobbering drunk."

Sam nods with congratulations and moves to put up his tray.

Leonard follows him. "How've things worked out for you?"

Sam cannot figure out why the guy would care, but he answers the question anyway. "Fine, I guess."

"I, uh," and abruptly Sam's tag-along looks uncomfortable and grim, "read about your dad in a history class. Sorry I didn't make the connection when we met." He sounds sincere when he says, "I hope no one's giving you shit about it."

Sam shrugs, but his gaze strays to a section of the cafeteria occupied by noisy cadets.

McCoy's eyes track in the same direction. "Yeah, those meatheads... every class has 'em."

"Doesn't matter," Sam mutters. "I'm not here for my father."

"Of course not," Leonard agrees. "You're here for you."

He doesn't say anything to that, though it isn't exactly the truth. McCoy wouldn't know about Jimmy.

"Listen, I think the sobriety thing's overrated if I'm supposed to play at being a _cadet_," the man at Sam's elbow drawls, "and you look like you could use a drink, or three."

He did?

"I know I sure as hell could use one," McCoy continues. "Even though you're a kid compared to me—"

"You don't look older than twenty-two," Sam points out.

Leonard snorts. "I'm twenty-four. As I was sayin', you seem like decent company by comparison to most of your age group."

Sam smiles a little, amused by the way McCoy implicitly set himself apart.

"You're what, eighteen?" the older cadet guesses.

"Nineteen."

"Well, kid, I know a bar that doesn't check ids. Interested?"

Sam gazes out of a nearby window at the stretch of green lawn and the horizon of campus buildings. He hasn't left the grounds yet, much to his own roommate's despair.

Leonard puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels while Sam is silently contemplating his decision. "If you can put up with my bitching, I can put up with yours."

"Deal," Sam agrees at last. They trade comm numbers and set up a time and place to meet in the evening.

Later, in said bar frequented by underage drinkers, Sam sits next to Leonard McCoy and listens attentively to a long-winded rant about the trials and tribulations of finishing a residency in a hospital run by morons while trying to shoulder a regular first year course-load as an aspiring Starfleet officer.

Sam himself doesn't vent—in fact, he stays silent the entire night, even when he hauls a tipsy McCoy back to a dorm for Medical students and trudges back to his own room—but he does, he will realize the next morning, make a friend.

* * *

In Sam's second year, he is in a study group for a Biology class with a young woman named Aurelan. He doesn't really need the study group because his grades are the top in the class, but it seems like time well spent just listening to Aurelan debate lab results with another girl named Carol. Aurelan always wins the debates. Sam admires that about her. He likes the slant of her mouth and the pert end to her nose and those baggy sweaters she wears to the library in winter. Sometimes, Aurelan catches his eyes and smiles at him, but he never says a word to her beyond the page of the textbook for the reference she wants to find or to tell her the available time in his schedule to hold the next group meeting.

School work in San Francisco seems no different than in Iowa, except there is more of it and no nosy teachers pestering students to do their homework. There are, on the other hand, plenty of temptations inside and outside campus to reduce productivity. Sam is an expert at single-minded focus, and he turned down a lot of offers to have fun in his first year. This year, most classmates know better than to ask.

He has a different counselor every semester. This simply tells Sam that he is no more important than a check box on someone's roster, so the answers he gives are as bored as the questions he receives. Yet in the spring, something unusual happens. The older woman overlooking his case file asks him, "Why did you chose the command track, George?"

Sam asks her in return, "It's Sam. Is there a reason not to?"

She cocks her head and studies him through her glasses. They must be for fashion, Sam thinks, because people rarely wear eyeglasses anymore. "Your grades in the Sciences are much higher, and your placement scores show an aptitude in that area as well. I'm only curious. Your mother is currently stationed on a research vessel, isn't she?"

"My father," Sam says, jaw twitching at the mention of Winona, "chose Command."

"I see. Do you feel you need to follow in his footsteps?"

"No." Sam looks her in the eyes. "I have no desire to die a hero. I just want a ship."

She makes a thoughtful noise at the back of her throat and jots something down on her padd. Sam refuses to answer the rest of her nosy questions, and inevitably she has to dismiss him to move on to the next patient. Nobody mentions changing his track of study again.

* * *

Everything changes at the beginning of his third year. Sam is ready to push through the semester so he can be one step closer to joining the senior ranks of the cadets in his field; he wants to throw himself headlong into the career destined for space. It's almost time to start thinking about shipside assignments. Some people are crashing from the stress of their intense courses and future plans; Sam meets it all with infinite calm. That calm, one of his instructors once remarked, is a necessary trait for commanders. It's one of the few times he has been complimented in his classes on something other than his diligence to do the work load in a timely manner and to make good grades.

He has about an hour before his next class, a lecture series with Admiral Komack about interplanetary diplomacy that usually sends half of the room to sleep, and stops by the nearest cafeteria to grab lunch. The hall is already packed, but Sam manages to slip into the food line without fuss.

"Man, what is this shit?" the young cadet in front of him complains. "Why is it even the replicators produce awful food?"

"We're government-run," Sam replies, fishing for a fork and a spoon. "Budget cuts."

A burst of group laughter echoes through the hall. Sam ignores it but the other cadet rises on his tiptoes to peer over the crowds of people. "It's that dude," he says. "Thinks he's a real riot. He made my prof so mad the other day because he was snoring in class."

"Sounds like trouble," Sam murmurs idly. There really _isn't _anything good to eat in this particular cafeteria. If he hadn't been in such a rush, he would have remembered that.

"Can you believe he's the son of that Federation hero, what's his name, Gerald or Geordie or... Geronimo?"

An Orion girl on the other side of the blabbermouth says indignantly, "It's George Kirk, dumbass. No wonder you're failing history."

Sam, previously immersed in contemplation of a wilted salad or a jello bowl, snaps his head up. "What?" He looks between the two cadets, repeating, "What about the son of George Kirk?"

The Orion eyes him, no doubt liking the fact that he is clearly older than she is. Her red mouth curves in a wicked smile. "Who cares about Jim? What's your name, sweetie?"

Sam's mind goes utterly blank for a second.

"Yeah, his name's Jim," the guy at Sam's elbow agrees eagerly, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the throng of people. "Jim Kirk. He's a freshman recruit just like me!" He beams.

Sam doesn't hear anything else because now that he's looking he sees it, _sees _Jim. Hair like gold in the sunlight; one boot propped on a bench as he chats with a lovely dark-skinned woman with an annoyed expression. Jimmy looks like every holopic of their father Sam has ever seen.

Sam abandons his tray and turns around in a sort of daze, the call of "Hey, man, where're you going?" distant in his ears. When he arrives at his dorm, his often-absent roommate isn't there. He is struck by a vague sensation of relief but it quickly melts away into something gray and muzzy like the rest of him. In the next instant, Sam has locked himself inside the room's tiny bathroom. There he throws up repeatedly, twisting the nozzle of the sink to spray full blast just in case someone might hear.

* * *

Tracking down his advisor usually isn't easy, but the day after a restless night it's a task as simple as Sam hacking into the man's schedule and the campus security feeds. Sam is waiting for him just outside the steps of the faculty office building. There had been some kind of emergency board meeting for all of the high-ranked commanding officers.

Christopher Pike isn't alone. Komack is with him.

"You missed class," the Admiral accuses Sam as soon as they are in hearing range of one another.

Sam ignores him. To Pike he says, "I need to talk to you."

Komack hates being ignored but before he can tear into Sam for breaking some proper code of conduct, Pike lies smoothly to his bristling companion, "I had an appointment with Kirk. I completely forgot. Can we reschedule our discussion for another time?"

Pike's hand is on Sam's shoulder in the next instant, steering him into the building and shutting the entrance door on any protest Komack might have made.

"Sam," Pike begins after they barely step foot in his office, "I wanted to tell you."

"Tell me?" All of the conversations he had concocted wherein he tries to explain to his advisor about Jimmy vanish in a heartbeat. Sam pushes the hand from his shoulder, feeling dizzy and betrayed. "You knew... about Jimm—about my brother?"

"Son," his advisor says softly, "I always knew."

For some reason, Sam wants to punch something. Someone. Maybe Pike. But he'd get expelled for that. Then again, what does that matter now that Jimmy is back?

The world greys at the edges.

"Are you all right?" Pike asks with sharp concern, moving towards Sam.

Sam throws out a hand. "Don't. I—" Suddenly he can breathe again; he's not close to panicking. Sam drops his hand back to his side and snaps to attention. "Never mind. I'm late for class, sir." He skirts the edge of a bookcase so he doesn't have come close to a man he used to think was on his side, a man he trusted.

"Sam," Pike calls him, "Sam!"

But Sam doesn't want to stay. The world is upside-down—everything he thought he knew, that he has tried to live with. Jimmy has come back, the mission is pointless, and his mistake is bearing down again, like a monster come to life. His feelings are too tangled to sort. All Sam knows is terror.

It's enough to speed him through the corridors, out of the building, and to the very edge of campus. There he clings to a low wall and breathes, just breathes for many hours.

* * *

"Hey, the craziest thing happened..." Leonard McCoy is saying as he drops like a ton of bricks into the booth opposite of Sam. Meeting in the dimly lit O'Reilly's bar near the Bay docks has been a weekend routine between them for two years. McCoy pauses mid-sentence in order to lean over the table and peer at Sam's wan face. "Shit, Sammy, are you sick?"

Leonard likes to call him Sammy for some inane reason or another. Sam never minded much, though sometimes it reminded him of his little brother, who used to call him that; the memory has been always bittersweet.

Today, though, Sam does mind. He minds more than he could possibly put into words. "My name is _Sam_," he corrects Leonard, then waves off his friend's concern. "Couldn't sleep last night. It's nothing."

Leonard's frown lessens, though his fingers twitch like they want to wrap around an invisible tricorder. "How long have you had trouble sleeping?"

Sam gives him a bland look. "I'm not one of your patients."

"Well make sure you don't become one!" Leonard shoots back but there is no heat to the retort. McCoy settles into his seat and eyes the open beer bottles in front of Sam. "Looks like you started already. Where's mine?"

Sam slides the bottle he had set aside for Leonard across the table.

"So, let me tell you about all the new morons that just fell off the boat. I swear to god each year the recruits get younger and dumber."

Sam closes off his senses to the busy bar around them and lets his friend's voice flow over him. He isn't in the mood to think, and luckily Leonard will do the talking for both of them if he stays quiet.

"We've already had ten substance abuse cases, and some jack-wagon thought climbing the IDIC statue donated by the Vulcans was a good idea until he fell off and busted his head open. Worst part is he was sober while he did it. Can you imagine raising a devil like that? I pity his parents. That wasn't the worst of my week of hell, though. I caught somebody pilfering out of our main medical supply closet to treat himself. Fuckin' idiot. Does he think we doctors are only good to stand around and twiddle our thumbs all day? Wait, that's what I wanted to tell you. You'll never guess what his name was."

"Jim," Sam says automatically, because Jimmy is pervasive in his thoughts even when he's trying hard not to think. So why not now too?

Leonard blinks at him and raises his eyebrows. "How the hell did you know that?"

The beer seems to have dried his mouth out. Sam cannot speak. He pushes out of the booth, fumbling for enough credits to cover all of the drinks he had.

"Hey," Leonard is saying from the periphery of his vision, "Sammy, what's going on? Sam?"

Sam puts the money on the table and uses the back of his hand to wipe at his eyes. "Tonight's not good for me. I'm sorry, Leonard." McCoy has set his beer down. Sam purposefully doesn't look at his friend's expression.

"Damn it, Sam, I'm the one who's sorry. I told you way back I can be an asshole even when I don't mean to be." His voice gentles. "Something's eating at you. I'll let you talk this time, I swear."

Sam shakes his head. "It's not—something I can talk about. Really, I'm sorry," he apologizes again. "See you next weekend."

Leonard doesn't try to call him back to the table, probably too surprised to react. Sam is grateful for that.

* * *

Keeping to himself is just as well, it seems. He ditches most of his classes for the next week and haunts the hangouts frequented by the underclassmen that he avoided for a majority of his Academy years. Sometimes Sam spies Jim, and sometimes he doesn't. In any instance, he can never move from his hiding spot. He can never speak.

And Jim never once looks his way.

Sam is grateful for that, too.

* * *

Aurelan is prettier than ever. She catches up to him on a sidewalk one day and says, "Do you want to grab something to eat?"

Food has no taste these days. Sam shakes his head, belatedly remembering to smile so she doesn't take offense to his non-verbal reply.

Aurelan stares at him for a long moment, finally letting go of his arm with reluctance. "Okay." Nearby a classmate calls her name, wanting her attention. "...but you'll eat, right?"

Sam doesn't want to lie to her. He stays silent. The classmate hurries along the sidewalk, twining through people, to reach Aurelan's side. She pulls the young woman away, chattering all the while.

Sam turns in the opposite direction and disappears in the nearest crowd.

* * *

He becomes aware in short order that Jim is not as oblivious as Sam thought he might be.

Sam returns to O'Reilly's at the appointed time on a Saturday fully prepared to forget about his brother and to make up for ditching Leonard the two weekends previous. But it's impossible to step beyond the threshold of the bar when Sam sees Leonard in their usual booth and a too-familiar blond head with him.

Leonard catches sight of Sam and grows unnaturally still, face pale. Jimmy turns to look too.

An iron fist batters into Sam's lungs when they make eye-contact. He loses all sense of how to breathe; before he knows it, he is backpedaling through the door, bumping into people but too preoccupied with escape to care. Leonard shapes Sam's name then with urgency, but it's Jim Sam is focused on. Jim who says not a word. Jim who watches him with those electric blue eyes, eyes that say to Sam, _I know you_.

Then Sam is out in the street, desperately gulping down the air he couldn't seem to find in the bar.

He doesn't attempt to see Leonard again. Leonard belongs to Jim now and whether Sam ever admits so aloud, he would gladly hand over his only friend to his brother because he owes him so much.

It only occurs to Sam much, much later that Jim might want more than McCoy. That the giving and the repenting have barely begun.

* * *

The decision comes easily, like it was waiting not far out of reach for Sam to find it. Before the month is out, he sends in his notice to his advisor.

_Student Hiatus_, the form calls it. _A necessary leave of absence_.

Pike's response is instantaneous, as though he knows Sam started packing the moment the Send button was pressed. The reply reads: _My office. Now._

It's as brusque as Sam expected. He ignores it. Minutes later, Sam's comm goes off. After the third frantic _ping_, Sam picks up the vid call. Pike's face fills the screen, and the man doesn't look happy at all.

Sam couldn't care less. He places his back to the screen and resumes packing.

"You're not leaving," his advisor says in a steely tone that makes lesser men shudder, "and you are _not_going to skip another class."

Sam shoves his last pair of socks into a duffel bag. "You aren't my parent, sir. Whether you approve the request or not, I won't be here tomorrow. It's your call." Maybe from someone else, that would sound like a bluff. Coming from Sam, it's nothing but truth.

"Sam—" He listens as Pike pauses to take a deep breath. "_Damn it_, Sam, this is not the end of the world! I know you're angry with Jim—"

Sam whirls around. "You don't know anything about how I feel!" he spits.

A shadow passes across Pike's face; perhaps he knows he is fighting a losing battle. He tries for compromise. "One semester off, but no more than that."

"I want the year. Things have changed. It doesn't matter if I graduate late," Sam tells his advisor bitterly. "We both know that."

Pike lowers his voice. He isn't gentle or threatening, just matter-of-fact. "When things got tough, your father didn't run away."

"With all due respect, sir," Sam says, tired of hearing this very thing people have told him all of his life, "_fuck you_. I am not my father." He stabs a finger at the bottom of the screen to end the call then powers down the comm and pitches it in the trash can under his desk.

Bag slung over his shoulder, he heads out of his dorm room for the nearest stair well. He doesn't look back, refuses to. There is no need to be scared this time of where he'll go or what he will do. Jim survived eight years on his own. For Sam, this kind of survival for himself is long overdue.

* * *

**TBC in Part Two: Sam's return to Starfleet. Because the fic became too long. :)**


	2. Part Two

Sam might have stayed away longer than a year if Christopher Pike had not come to fetch him.

It's late summer in a backwater town of Alabama. The twenty-two year-old simply looks at his advisor across the bar counter from where he is wiping down glasses. If he is surprised, his expression is too bland to show it.

"Don't I get a _hello, nice to see you_?" Pike asks.

"Have you been tracking me this entire time?"

"You didn't leave the planet," the man replies, which is answer enough to the accusation.

"Have to have money to leave the planet," Sam murmurs, turning away slightly to reach for a decanter. "Brandy, right?"

"Is it the good stuff?"

"Does this place look like they sell anything that isn't watered down?" In the back of the establishment a sagging stage juts out from a curtained wall. The tables circling it are empty, their chairs turned upside down on the top. At this time of day, most of the dancers are sleeping off the demands of the previous evening. Sam has been told it's respectful to call them dancers, no matter how obscene their movements are. "Sorry," he says off-hand to make Pike squirm, "the entertainment isn't available until eight."

With a slight grimace, Pike motions for him to pour a small shot. His expression changes then to something more scrutinizing; but it's Sam Pike is studying, not the rows of cheap liquor at Sam's back. He comments, "You've changed."

Sam responds with a shrug and puts Pike's drink together. After he hands the shot glass over, he picks up his rag again and focuses on cleaning the taps of the nearby kegs. Pike seems content to let the silence stretch between them for a while.

The owner pokes his head through the door of a back room and eyes Sam like he still can't figure out why he hired a drifter to operate his bar during daylight hours. "Break something, and you pay for it outta your wages." Then the rough-looking man goes back to whatever his business might be—probably counting the product that has nothing to do with liquor sales and that Sam isn't supposed to know exists. It's for the best, Sam decides, that Pike is in civilian clothes. Otherwise Sam would be out on his ass in the street for potentially jeopardizing the owner's side business.

Pike lifts his shot glass up to eye level and inspects the amber liquid through the light. Sam sighs and puts away his rag, returning to the man who won't, it seems, leave him alone until they have talked.

Before Sam can say _I don't think I'm coming back to Starfleet_, Pike asks, "Was it worth it?"

"What?"

"This time on your own. Was it worth it?"

Sam nods.

"Tell me why." It isn't a request.

Sam doesn't think it is a good idea to explain how he really felt when he left. It was like he had been suddenly let free from shackles, ones he had worn all of his life yet never known he was wearing. The sensation could have only been described as dizzying as the shuttle had sped from San Francisco down the coast of California. Sam can still remember clinging to the window sill beside his seat, watching the ground fly past. If his brother felt even a margin of that relief and near-exhilaration... it's no wonder Jimmy did not return home before now.

He realizes he has been lost in his thoughts so long one of the other customers at the bar left without his noticing—and the guy didn't pay. Shit. That will be coming out of his wages.

Pike is watching him with a patience Sam figures he must have been born with. "Sorry," the younger man apologizes.

Pike raises one eyebrow. Sam comes around the side of the bar and takes a seat beside the man. Bracing his elbows on the counter, he gathers words in his head that might marginally sound like an explanation. "I guess I never had time to myself before—not time that wasn't spent in the pursuit of some higher goal. I don't know." He drops his head slightly. "It just feels... good to be responsible only for myself."

"Sam..." Pike seems to be choosing his words with care too. "I thought I understood your motivation when you entered Starfleet but I can see I was mistaken. It was for Jim, wasn't it?" He sighs softly. "You could have told me that."

"The counselors never bothered to look for an answer that made sense, so I figured why should anyone else care as long as I didn't break any rules?" He shrugs. "It doesn't matter now why I wanted in. Jimmy's proven he didn't need my help." Sam bites down on his bottom lip, hesitating to say more but needing to ask. "He's doing really good at the Academy, isn't he?"

A chuckle bubbles forth from Pike, surprising Sam. "I was wondering who kept breaking into the records system."

Sam flushes. "You shouldn't put in a backdoor if you expect no one to use it."

"That's a debate for the IT staff," Pike says, dismissing the comment. "For a while, I thought it was Jim entertaining himself. Maybe to see how fast he'd get caught, if he was caught at all."

"Oh, he has been in there," Sam informs the man, feeling a bit smug about tattling on his little brother. "The trail's a mile wide if you know what to look for."

Pike looks pained.

After a few moments, Sam's good humor falters. "Jimmy's smart," he murmurs. Sam bases that statement off of more than Jim's ability—if somewhat lackadaisical in nature—to breach cyber security. It had been with pride, dismay, and envy that Sam looked over his brother's placement scores.

"Jim's a genius who lacks common sense to temper to his intelligence. In other words, he's a pain in my ass," Pike supplies dryly. Then the man releases a heavy sigh. "He spent most of this past year testing my patience."

Sam ducks his head, smiling.

"It's not amusing, boy," Pike tells him sourly. "You try towing the line with your brother on the other end and see how you like it."

"Not my problem."

As if Sam had said something Pike expected to hear, the man leans toward him, an earnest look in his eyes. "Actually it is. Granted, your friend McCoy has been doing his damnedest to keep Kirk in one piece and he's done a fair job so far—"

Really? Leonard _hates _being in charge of 'idiots with a death wish', as he calls them. He would have told Sam to shape up or cut his throat already if Sam had acted like that kind of fool. Why is Jim the exception?

Sam almost wishes he could call up Leonard and ask. That, however, _would _be a mistake. He imagines McCoy doesn't want to speak to him.

"Sam?"

Sam returns his attention to Pike. "Yes, sir?"

His advisor shakes his head sadly. "You didn't hear a word I just said. Ah, son," he says, "what am I going to do with you?"

Sam assumes that question is rhetorical. He wouldn't know how to answer it anyway if it wasn't. "I know why you're here, sir," he says, getting to the heart of the matter. They've been dancing around it too long. "I don't know if I am coming back. I don't know if I'm ready."

Pike's eyes are understanding; that, more than anything which has been said to Sam so far, suddenly makes it hard for him to swallow.

"Most of us aren't ready for what life throws our way, Sam. But that's what unites the Fleet. We journey into space because it _is _unknown to us, and though we might not be fully prepared for what is out there, we have our skill sets and our rules and, when necessary, our own judgment to help us face it. You're not alone in how you feel."

"Even about Jimmy?"

"Especially in terms of Jim, because whether you believe this or not, Jim isn't ready to face you either."

Sam doesn't know why but his heart sinks slightly at that news.

Pike reaches out and captures Sam's shoulder, giving it a brief squeeze. "So I guess that puts both of you on even ground."

"But if he doesn't want to see me..."

"Sam," the older man says with grimness lurking in his tone, "there will always be an excuse should you want to find one. What you need to ask yourself is: if you let excuses keep you from reuniting with your brother, even for a single second, will you ever regret it?" He releases Sam and stands up, placing money on the counter for his untouched drink. "Think about what I've said. I can stay in town for a few more days before I have to report in. I'd like to have you with me when I do—but the choice is still yours."

With those final words Pike walks out, leaving Sam to ponder that very important question.

* * *

In the end, the decision to return to Starfleet is as painless as the decision to leave. Maybe that is the benefit of time; or maybe that is solely due to Pike's powers of persuasion. Sam doesn't quite know. One truth he does know is that he needs to be somewhere with a purpose, not living in this aimless way. Despite the nature of it, he had had a road to walk in Starfleet. He realizes with more clarity now he wants to see where that road goes. If circumstances become too strained, Sam tells himself, he'll simply move on.

In a convenience store two days following their talk, he crosses paths with his advisor either by accident or invention (who knows? Pike has proven sneakier than Sam thought possible). Sam blurts out, unable to stop his runaway mouth, "Okay, I'll come back."

"Wonderful," Pike replies smoothly, paying the teller for his purchase. He tosses a nutritional bar from a bag Sam's way when they are on the street. "We leave in an hour. I assume you packed."

And just like that, Sam is on a shuttle bound for San Francisco in the co-pilot seat opposite the 'Fleet's illustrious Christopher Pike.

"Did you steal this?" he asks, curious. His eyes rove over the latest tech gadgets built into the controls; this isn't an old model ship for rent.

Pike cuts his eyes at Sam. "You seem to forget I'm a captain, Cadet. I don't need to steal a craft."

"Right. So they just hand them over like jellybeans because you have stripes on your shoulder," Sam retorts, displeased at the title of 'Cadet'. Pike knows it has always rubbed him the wrong way for some reason.

The older man mutters a word under his breath. Sam pretends not to hear it, since it's not complimentary about his parentage.

"Look in the compartment above your head," orders Pike.

Sam does, finding a data padd already turned on.

"I took the liberty of drawing up your schedule for the semester since you weren't present for registration. If you want to change any of the courses, let me know now."

Sam snaps his jaw shut so his mouth doesn't hang open. He pulls up the file with his schedule and peruses it with a surreal feeling. A minute later, he drops the padd into his lap and stares at Pike's side profile. "What if I hadn't wanted to go?"

The corner of Pike's mouth quirks. "I always have a Plan B."

"What was Plan B?"

"You mean _who _was Plan B. Your mother," Pike answers in the next breath before Sam can react.

If Sam was floored before, Pike had just backed over him for good measure. It's natural instinct to recoil at the mention of Winona; he does it without thinking.

Pike lifts a hand from the shuttle control panel, as if Sam might decide to take a nosedive out of an emergency exit. "I didn't tell her where you are, though she does know I've kept my eye on you. ...But, Sam," Pike explains with a levity that deepens the lines around his mouth, "if it took bringing your mother here to set you on the right path again, I would have. Never doubt that."

Sam doesn't doubt it, not for a second. He leans back in his seat and, once his shock has passed, focuses on the class schedule again. The demand comes from no place that Sam can discern. "I want to switch tracks."

"All right," his advisor agrees in a mild tone. "Let's discuss your options."

They do, and Sam realizes in that moment Christopher Pike was the first person to accept him as he is—stubborn, broken and often confused. Pike has never pushed him to be a different person, only to be better, wiser. The man in the pilot's seat is the father-figure he had often wished for when he was a child; if he hadn't been disillusioned of the notion by the time he met Pike, he would have recognized that.

It is with infinite regret Sam faces the fact that once he trades Command for Science, he will lose Pike altogether. "Will you look after Jimmy the way you've looked after me?" he asks of Pike once the shuttle is in the air.

Pike's seatbelt twists as he turns to look at Sam. "I already am."

Sam is relieved. All he can say is "Thank you," hoping like in the past thank you will be enough for Pike.

It is.

* * *

Sam adjusts to cadet life again in a reasonably short period of time. A weight has returned to settle on his shoulders but it isn't as heavy as before, just reminiscent of the stress he is certain to feel once the school workload is back to full capacity.

Or fuller capacity, he thinks. He had to add in two extra courses to help catch up with the other cadets on the Science track. It would be humiliating to be taking a class with cadets very much his junior, but with stoicism Sam accepts that as a consequence of his missed time. He hasn't forgotten any of his lessons from his command courses and he sees the benefit in the knowledge of them, so with Pike's approval Sam keeps one command course on his schedule as well.

Then he has to say goodbye to Pike. It would have been an emotional event for Sam (at least in the privacy of his own room) except Pike decides to quite literally hand him off to another advisor. The poor professor makes noises of profuse agreement with all of Pike's instructions on how to watch out for George Samuel Kirk. Sam is red in the face by the time the conversation is done. On the bright side, the embarrassment staves off manly tears.

It is a month into the fall semester when Sam begins to catch wind of the rumors floating around about his brother. If anything, Jim is not keeping a low profile like Sam had always made a point of doing. Jim wants the limelight and he gets it. James T. Kirk, it is said, is fluent in the slang of Orion pirates, likes to bar fight on the weekends, has slept with every nurse in Starfleet Medical, has a tattoo of the Federation President on his ass, and is actively leading a revolt against cafeteria mystery meat. A group of cadets in one of Sam's classes whisper amongst themselves that the Crazy Kirk plans to take the Kobayashi Maru next year and _pass_. There's a betting pool centered around it. The odds appear to be in Jim's favor.

Sam doesn't know how many of the rumors are true and he figures ignorance is bliss. But concerning the command test no one in Starfleet history has ever passed, Sam is torn between amused and horrified. Exactly how arrogant is his brother?

He might be worrying about this very question on the day he steps out of his dorm building without paying attention and comes face-to-face with a pissed Leonard McCoy. Sam freezes like a deer caught in headlights, his voice suddenly lost to him.

"It's been a long time, Sam," Leonard says, his face expressionless but his eyes burning with some dark emotion.

Sam can barely manage a nod. His throat feels swollen.

"Did you plan on telling me you were back?"

"I—" No. "—thought it wouldn't matter."

"WHAT?" the man explodes.

Sam winces and wishes he had said nothing. Silence is always the safer choice, particularly when talking to someone with a volatile temper. If he takes a step backwards into the shelter of the building entrance, it's out of a need for personal space, not fear. At least, that's the lie he tries to convince himself of.

But McCoy follows him like a looming shadow. "_You stupid asshole!_"

Probably better not to debate the point when Leonard has murder in his eyes, Sam decides. He tries for unconcerned. "Look, I have to get to class..." Unfortunately, Sam is immediately reminded that unconcerned is an attitude which has never worked for him. In the next instant, Leonard is latched onto his arm and dragging Sam down the sidewalk like a reluctant puppy.

"The little shit," McCoy is spitting as he stalks. "Thinks it's _all right _to drop off the face of the Earth without so much as a by-your-leave."

"Leonard..."

"Friends don't do that, damn it!"

"Uh, Leonard," Sam tries again, digging in his heels to slow down their swift pace.

Abruptly Leonard stops. He lets go of Sam but his expression dares Sam to try and run away. "I don't know what's going on in that damn fool head of yours, Sammy, but I didn't do anything wrong and I sure as hell didn't do anything that needs an explanation!"

"I didn't say that."

"You're the one who made the mistake!"

"Okay," Sam agrees, feeling calmer. "Can you tell me what it is you think I think you did?"

That causes Leonard to frown. "Don't confuse me."

Sam just looks at him.

McCoy rakes a hand through his hair. "I didn't know about Jim until he told me—which, by the way, is also your fault. _Friends _share vital information about each other, like AWOL brothers." Leonard glares at Sam. "'N let me make this clear in case you keep missing my point: you need to re-read your How to Be a Friend manual, asshole."

"I'm really not comfortable with you calling me an asshole," murmurs Sam.

"Suck it up," Leonard snaps without a hint of remorse. "You deserve the title more than me right now, because _friends_—"

Sam interrupts quickly, "You don't have to keep saying that. I get it, I'm not a decent human being." He ends a bit bitterly, "I _know _that, Leonard."

Leonard's mouth thins but he says nothing else, only nods once sharply.

"I'm sorry," Sam adds, knowing that the words need to be said even if they won't change anything. He sighs softly and shifts on his feet. "Were you taking me anywhere in particular?"

Leonard looks at their surroundings as if he is seeing this part of campus for the first time. "...No, I guess not."

"Then would it be okay if I go to class now?"

Two conflicting emotions war on Leonard's face even as he steps back to allow Sam passage. "I'm not letting this go so easily. We're going to talk, Sammy."

"I really don't think there is much else we can say."

McCoy's eyes stay on him. "We can talk about Jim."

"No, we can't," Sam says tiredly, "because I don't want to hear it." He turns to leave but pauses long enough to voice his last thought on the matter. "I'm sure he's told you everything... so believe me when I say I already understand that he hates me."

Maybe he surprised Leonard with his bluntness, but that doesn't matter. The truth, he learned long ago, is always going to hurt.

Sam makes his stride longer than usual so he can quickly put distance between himself and his former friend.

* * *

The old wounds opened by the meeting with Leonard take several days to scab over. In the meantime, Sam attends his classes (there's no need to give his advisor a heart attack, Sam is well-aware the poor fellow has to be submit weekly reports to Pike) and makes himself scarce on campus otherwise. He spends some time enjoying the sights San Francisco has to offer. He takes a boat ride out into the Bay and walks the length of the docks. On his fourth day out, he comes across a small bookshop that still sells paper copies and passes several hours reading through old classics he enjoyed as a young boy.

It's with a paperback wrapped in a brown parcel under his arm that Sam returns to campus one Thursday afternoon in time for his evening classes. Feeling wistful, he passes by a spot that used to be favored by his old Biology study group in the spring. It would be ironic to him later that just as he was thinking of Aurelan, he would find her there like a ghost from a memory of a past life.

But a wish granted can be a double-edged sword. He learns that when he sees her. Aurelan is with Jim.

For a flash of a moment, as Sam comes to a standstill in the courtyard, he thinks bitterly, _I shouldn't have left._

Then that thought becomes a resounding _no_. No, he made the right choice and, no, he is not going to allow this to happen. Not _this_.

Before he can change his mind, he strides toward the half circle of stone benches and two of its occupants. Aurelan glances away from Jim after having laughed about something and spies Sam heading in their direction. Her mouth opens as she half-rises out of her seat. They haven't seen one another since before Sam's departure. Sam is glad to finally lay eyes on her again. She looks like home.

Which is exactly why Sam focuses on his brother, who has gotten to his feet and dropped his hands to his sides with a stiff posture like he expects a fight. Sam doesn't call Jim by name, instead jerks his head to the side and paces away, only partly certain of his assumption that Jim will follow him. If Jim doesn't, Sam will drag him by the back of the shirt. It might be awkward since Jimmy isn't smaller in stature than him anymore, but that can't be helped.

He doesn't think too hard about this anger curling his fingers and turning a fear into a threat.

They slip into an alcove shielded by the growing ivy along the brick wall and face each other in silence for several minutes. Sam has the chance to study his brother's face, to take note of all its changes: the hard jaw line, the tiny marks from long-ago acne, the familiarity of their mother's nose and clean definition of their grandfather's eyebrows. It's not a remarkably beautiful face but its strong lines would be considered handsome by most people. That at least, Sam thinks, still breeds true in the Kirks.

Jim's expression is more difficult to study. It is a mixture of things, all of them painful but probably invisible to almost everyone except Sam (they learned how to hide pain shortly after Winona married Frank). The emotion Sam recognizes first and perhaps the best is the undisguised _want _in his brother's eyes. He swallows the stone in his throat and finds his voice in response to that desire.

"Not her. You can take everything else—_everything_, Jimmy—but not Aurelan." Jim's surprise, quickly masked, confuses Sam but he presses on. "She's the one thing I want, the only future I want for myself, so please don't—" He stops short of begging and draws in a quiet breath.

It's the first time he's ever admitted to needing someone other than himself. Will Jimmy condemn him for his desperation?

Jim looks like he is going to reply and Sam braces for it but in the end the younger Kirk only dips his head in a jerk of a nod. Sam thinks his heart is stupid for racing the way it is, like at the onset of an adrenaline rush. It's too much effort to get himself under control so he doesn't try. He manages a flat "Thanks" and turns away from his brother. Jim doesn't prevent him from leaving.

In the short confrontation, the ice had broken between them yet somehow created a wider chasm, too. It leaves Sam disturbed for days.

He will tell himself as he replays their meeting over and over in his mind he imagined the whisper of his name, because why should Jimmy have anything to say to him in return?

* * *

In a busy corridor one day, Sam catches sight of Leonard. Jim is casually walking beside him. Their heads are close together as they talk, and Jim's arm is slung around McCoy's shoulders.

The image is salt in his wound; at the same time Sam is comforted to see that Jim is not alone.

A classmate—a second-year cadet—bumps Sam's elbow with his armful of study materials. He apologizes, smiles at Sam, and curiously peers in the direction where Sam is looking with an absent expression. "Hey, I meant to ask. Your last name is Kirk, isn't it? Are you related to Jim Kirk?"

"He's my brother."

"Wow, how awesome! I didn't know there were two of you!"

Funny how that works, Sam muses as he returns to his dorm room. He used to be the only Kirk. Then he left when Jim arrived, and Jim was the only Kirk. Now that they are both here, how does that change their future?

* * *

People watch him when they think he can't tell.

"It's Sam Kirk," they say to their comrades. "Didn't he drop out?"

"No, I think he went on sabbatical."

"Was he sick?"

"Boy looks healthy to me. Rawr!"

"Hey, who's better looking—Jim or Sam?"

The campus speculation is annoying. In terms of gossip, he becomes popular. The only person more popular than he is is his brother. Sam doesn't believe that's something to be proud of.

Leonard, who hasn't come back to pester him in weeks, sends Sam a comm message out of the blue early one morning. It reads: _Jim's sulking. Campus consensus is you're better in bed._

Sam tosses his comm back onto his desk but he's grinning as he pulls his black undershirt over his head.

* * *

Studying for exams is tiring. Sam is exhausted. Lying on his stomach, he wants nothing more than to sleep. It would be so easy to pretend he is, but the knocking persists, not the kind that is heavy-handed like Leonard's would have been at one time but polite. Persistently polite. Sam shoves away from his bed with an aggrieved sigh, running fingers idly through his hair, and reaches for the doorknob.

Aurelan greets him from the other side of the door.

Flabbergasted because she's never tracked him to his room before in the past, he automatically steps aside to let her inside. Aurelan gives her surroundings a cursory glance before her eyes land unerringly on the articles of clothing lying haphazardly at the foot of his bed. Sam makes an embarrassed apology under his breath as he grabs the pile, unfortunately dropping a pair of dirty underwear on the floor in the process, and hides it in the tiny space designated as his closet.

"I had wondered," Aurelan says, "if you were messy or neat."

Sam feels the tips of his ears turning red. "I'm both, I think. Messy with laundry, neat with paperwork."

For some reason that brings a smile to her face. He has to look away so he doesn't stare like a dope. Aurelan is in his room! But why in the world would she come to see him?

Then an answer occurs to Sam, and his heart sinks. He doesn't know how to start an apology for something he isn't sorry for.

Aurelan surprises him. "Mind if I sit?" she asks.

Sam shakes his head, watching as Aurelan chooses to perch on the end of his bed.

The young woman looks up at him, takes a deep breath, and squares her shoulders. Her hand goes out in a wordless command to give her his hand.

Not knowing want else to do—he certainly can't turn down the invitation—he lets her fingers snag his. Aurelan tugs him to the side of the bed. "Sit," she orders, like this is her room and Sam is the visitor.

Sam's body obeys before he has a chance to think about it.

"Sam, I think you owe me an explanation."

With the hand that isn't holding hers, he twists his fingers into the bed sheet. "What kind of explanation?"

"You left school." Her eyes accuse him, _You didn't tell me you were leaving. _"Why?"

"I—" _I was tired of school. I was burned out. I had obligations elsewhere. _So many easy answers at the tip of his tongue and still he can't lie to her. "Aurelan, it's personal."

"Yes, I know—and I hadn't intended to ask because it wasn't my right to ask. But you made it personal for me, Sam, a few weeks ago."

His gaze finds a spot on the opposite wall. "I don't want to talk about him."

He tries to take his hand away from hers but Aurelan tightens her grip. A tense silence builds between them, though they are sitting so close the sides of their thighs are pressed together. Eventually Aurelan breaks the tension, keeping her voice low and quiet. "Jim and I became friends last year."

Sam imagines his heart trembles just the way his fingers twisted in the sheet are. Words desert him, along with any thought of anger.

"You said something to him that day, Sam. Now he's avoiding me."

Sam closes his eyes, thinking oddly, _Oh, Jimmy._

"You can't do that," Aurelan continues softly. "It's not fair to me."

This conversation is going to destroy him, he's sure of it. "Do you... want him?" Sam asks, almost stumbling over the question.

"What?"

"Jim," Sam says the name without opening his eyes. "Do you want him?"

"Sam, why would you ask me that?" Aurelan sounds troubled.

Sam has to look at her. It's a perfect invitation to confess his feelings. But what would that earn him if she prefers Jim?

"Did Jim tell you what happened between us?" he asks abruptly.

She shakes her head. "He never talks about his past, but I tried not to think of that as strange because you've never talked about your past either."

"Our pasts aren't the same," he tells her, acknowledging that painful fact. "Until fifteen months ago, I hadn't seen him for eight years."

"Oh," she says quietly.

He makes a snap decision, because this is Aurelan and in all likelihood they may never be this close again. "Can I tell you about the last time I saw him, Aurelan?"

"Do you want to?" she asks, sincere, nothing hidden in her tone.

"I never want to, but you're the only person I feel like I could tell if I had to. So I'm choosing to tell you," he explains, idly wondering when his hands became clammy and cold.

Something soft enters her eyes, there and gone. Sam has never seen anything like it before. It gives him courage.

"My father died when Jimmy was born," he begins. "You know that. Most people do. Our mother re-married when Jimmy was five. I don't think she wanted to be alone anymore. I can understand that now, but what I won't ever forgive her for is marrying a man like Frank and letting him hurt us. She might say she never knew but that's her fault too, because we were her children and her responsibility. She should have made the effort to know where our bruises came from." He stops for a second, reminding himself this isn't about Winona. "So basically it was a bad situation at home, and I was young enough and stupid enough to think running away was the answer. I tried to, and my mistake was taking Jimmy along with me. When we got to the shuttle terminal, I... chickened out. Jimmy didn't understand my fear. He always was the braver of the two of us." Sam tries to smile but finds his mouth is trembling too badly. "He wouldn't turn back even when I threatened him. He repeated to my face everything I had been saying for years. He told me it was our chance to find somewhere we could be normal, be happy, to find people who loved us instead of hated us. I didn't realize he'd believe those words with such conviction simply because I had said them. I got mad. It was everything I didn't want to hear because I knew I couldn't do it." Sam takes an unsteady breath and wonders, "Did he ever figure out I wasn't really angry with him, Aurelan? That I was only angry because I had disappointed myself?"

"Oh, Sam."

He turns his face away from her pity, knowing he has to finish the story. It wants to be heard; he wants her to hear it. "That was the moment I messed up badly, the moment I've gone back to in my dreams a thousand times to undo. I said, 'You think you're so s-smart—'" He chokes on the next words. "'What do you need me for, Jimmy? Get the hell out of here before it's too late!'" There is a terrible burning sensation in his throat. "I didn't mean to s-say it, " Sam swears, realizing his choking is due to fighting back the pain in this chest. "But Jimmy did it, Aurelan. He turned around without another word, and he left without me. He was just a kid and my brother and I let him go. By the time I went to look for him, he had vanished from the terminal."

Aurelan's arms are around his middle, clinging, and Sam can smell of her shampoo as she lays her cheek against his shoulder. The need to turn into her embrace and accept the solace he's never had is fierce. He pulls away from Aurelan and stands up instead, ignoring her plea of "Sam."

Sam just looks at her when he is across the room. "Now you know why I haven't said anything to anyone."

"Sam, it's all right. I—"

"About my feelings for you," he clarifies softly, causing her to fall silent. "I don't deserve what everyone else deserves... and I don't want you to love somebody like me, Aurelan."

Though her dark brown eyes shine with tears, Aurelan's chin lifts in that stubborn way he has always adored about her. "You can't pick who I love, Samuel Kirk."

"No, but I can tell you when it's a bad idea." He motions to the door. "You should leave now. My roommate is due back in a few minutes."

Aurelan rises from the foot of his bed, hugging herself. Her visage is grim, but she doesn't say anything else to him until she is at the door. Then it's just his name.

He feels more defeated than tired. Almost hollowed out. It's an effort to speak. "What?"

"Jim's interest in me has never been romantic."

Sam stills in the act of running his fingers along the edge of his cluttered desk.

"He always wants to talk about you," Aurelan whispers. "Just you. Even if you blame yourself, Sam, I don't think Jim blames you. I think he misses you."

Sam stays in the same spot long after she is gone. His roommate arrives an hour later, takes one look at his tear-stained face, and pivots in a smooth motion for the door again. He never asks why Sam looked so heartbroken that day, and Sam never tells him.

* * *

**I failed at finishing this; it got away from me. There will be one more part!**


	3. Part Three

**I would like to thank everyone for their patience. Not only has it been tough to find time to write this past week, but coming to a compromise in regards to Sam's fate wasn't easy either. You see, I started this story with a clear vision of how things would end, and the story was meant to be a brief and poignant look of what happens when someone walks a path of destiny that isn't his - namely, Sam - and how the universe tries to correct itself to bring Jim back into the picture. But I thought too long and too hard and realized there was so much more I could do with the details I had envisioned. The premise became focused on the broken bond between two brothers and destiny, believe it or not, took a backseat. So here is my compromise, folks, to give us both what we want. I hope you enjoy the story!**

* * *

For a week after Aurelan's visit, Sam sporadically contemplates the messaging system of his comm. He pulls up Leonard's contact information during class, at dinner or early in the morning to stare at it. But all of the staring in the world doesn't make a new message appear, and it certainly doesn't form a message of its own that Leonard can read. Each time Sam ends up placing the device aside, reminded that he doesn't know what to type. His connection with Leonard seems like a thing of the past, and anything he might say to the man would be awkward.

Sam's uneasiness plagues him for another week before he gives in to a persistent worry and goes over to the hospital. It occurs to Sam then as he is walking toward the section of campus which hosts the medical facilities that Leonard must have finished his residency last year as planned. Leonard would be working a proper schedule now as a certified physician. "Dr. McCoy"—Sam had jokingly called him that many times after they became friends. Always Leonard had responded with a long-suffering expression and a "Not until I've reached the point of wanting to drown myself, kid, like every other poor bastard in the field."

Sam is swamped by regret. He'd missed that special moment in Leonard's career. He had meant to be there for it; to congratulate his friend for seeing one dream fulfilled; and to be the first person to call Leonard by the hard-worn title of Doctor. Leaving had not come without a price. In so many little ways, Sam is discovering day-by-day in what dear coin he has paid for his decision.

Leonard has an office at the hospital in the basic shape, size and appearance of a cubicle. Sam asks an unfamiliar nurse if the space by the window is still Leonard's. She says, "Sure is, hon, but you won't find him there. He's gone on break. You might catch him outside the lockers, though."

Sam's memory of the hospital (he had only visited once each year for the required physical examination as a cadet) is too vague to be trusted. He asks where that is and she kindly leads him to the elevator with a very clear set of directions. Sam finds his destination without much difficulty, but no one comes or goes from the entrance to the staff lounge or locker rooms for a couple of minutes and Sam grows impatient. The door itself is secured against non-hospital personnel. He swipes his student card across the identification monitor and, following a pause from the computer, is awarded entry. He knew giving himself security clearance to match Leonard's would come in handy some day, even if that day took four years to arise.

Entering the men's area—which is disappointingly small, just as Leonard once proclaimed—Sam finds McCoy in front of a row of lockers. At first Leonard is too busy crumpling his medical scrubs into a ball to notice Sam's arrival. When McCoy drops a sock and, cursing, bends down to retrieve it, Sam clears his throat, saying, "Leonard?"

Leonard looks in Sam's direction and stares for a moment. The stare melts into a frown. Then Leonard straightens, jerks open the door to one of the lockers and begins to shove his personal belongings into it.

Before the silence can become into an impenetrable wall, Sam implores, "Can we talk?"

Leonard is quiet for a long minute, continuing to pluck at and rearrange items inside his locker as if Sam isn't there. Sam is close to giving up hope for a response when Leonard shuts the locker door suddenly and fixes a flat look on him. "I thought you didn't want to talk."

It's not quite an accusation. Sam feels bad nonetheless. "I—Sorry," he apologizes, his heart plummeting.

"Am I supposed to grateful?"

"I made a mistake. Leonard..." Leonard looks unimpressed. Sam's shoulders sink with resignation. "I'll go." He turns toward the door.

"Sam, wait!" Leonard is beside him in the next instant, holding onto his elbow and gently steering him into the middle of the locker room. Once positioned between Sam and the exit, Leonard says quickly, "I'm sorry I said that. I _am _grateful you came. I was beginning to lose hope that you would."

"You were waiting for me?" That thought startles Sam.

McCoy crosses his arms in annoyance. "Well, what did you want me to do, Sammy? Chase you around campus like I do your brother?" His voice drops to a mutter. "There's somethin' damned wrong with you Kirks. Why do you never think first 'n act later?"

Sam is fairly certain he ought to treat that comment as rhetorical so he does, staying silent.

Leonard's loud sigh echoes off the walls of the small room as the man loses his defensive stance, his shoulders naturally curving downward into a slump. Leonard's expression is laden with both irritability and concern. "You're driving me batty, kid. You didn't used to do that."

Sam shrugs one shoulder. "Things change, I guess."

"Yeah, I tell me about it." Leonard's tone softens. "So, is it Jim you want to talk about?"

Sam fixes his eyes on a spot over Leonard's shoulder. Of course McCoy would guess correctly. "Is he... doing okay?"

"You mean since you kicked his ass over Aurelan?"

The sting in Leonard's words is intentional and surprises Sam. "I didn't kick his ass."

"You don't have to touch somebody physically to hurt them," counters McCoy, a fierce quality to his drawl.

Sam stares at Leonard, coming to the realization that the man is not simply disapproving of his actions but also protective of Jim. "You're really close to my brother."

Leonard's mouth presses into a thin line, as if he can neither admit nor deny that statement.

"It's okay," Sam clarifies quickly. "I'm not upset about it." He winces over the half-lie. "Well, maybe I was at first but Jimmy..." He doesn't know how to finish that sentence.

"Jim deserves a friend," Leonard finishes for him.

Sam nods, feeling inexplicably sad all of a sudden. "I don't know what it was like for him... out there, but wouldn't it have been lonely?" _And terrifying?_ his brain supplies. _How could a child have survived on his own? _Sam tries his best to still those thoughts because they hurt.

"I wish I knew," Leonard is saying while Sam struggles with emotions that want to be given free reign.

"What?"

"You think he told me something, Sammy, but you're wrong." The measure of sadness in Leonard's eyes is a perfect reflection of Sam's. "No matter how I try to broach the subject, Jim clams up like an Andorian shellmouth. What happened that made him so...?"

"Messed up?" Sam glances away. _Damn it, Jimmy. _"I know I was wrong about Aurelan, but I don't think I'm wrong about you, Leonard. You're Jim's closest friend at this school—and if I give you an answer to that question, I'll hurt him more than I already have." He holds Leonard's gaze. "Won't I?"

Leonard agrees with a quiet "Yeah." Then he rakes a hand through his hair. "I guess I'm just not meant to know."

Sam puts a hand on Leonard's shoulder, not knowing what else to do. Would Jimmy ever speak of his past to Leonard? Sam might have thought he knew an answer like that years ago, but his brother is a stranger to him now.

A request comes unbidden, partly because Sam feels remorseful for ruining Leonard's mood and partly because he wishes they could be close like they once were. "Do you want to go out for a drink?"

Leonard smiles. "Normally I'd say yes but I've had my fill of alcohol for a while. I could always use some proper coffee though. The stuff they keep here is the cheap shit."

Coffee is a much better choice than alcohol in Sam's opinion. He releases Leonard's shoulder and steps back, looking at a digital wall clock. "Later this week, maybe? Just let me know when you're free." Then he motions at the door. "I think I should go. Sorry to intrude on your break like this."

Leonard gives an odd shake of his head, distracting Sam just long enough that Sam doesn't realize McCoy's intent until he is securely in the other man's arms.

"Stop being a wuss and hug me back, you idiot," Leonard complains fondly.

"I'm not much of a hugger," Sam responds, but it's too easy to lean into the embrace. He cannot remember the last time he had a proper hug.

"Well, color me surprised," Leonard says, amused. "Jim said exactly the same thing." With a final tightening of his arms, Leonard lets go of Sam and pulls away.

Not liking this awkward feeling taunting him, Sam rubs at his nose.

"He did that too, afterwards," McCoy remarks with a snicker. "But don't worry, the hugs are growing on Jim, I can tell—so I expect they'll grow on you too."

"I'm definitely leaving now," declares Sam, scuttling to the side and away from Leonard.

"Run while you can, Kirk!" comes the cheerful call at his back. "Run while you can!"

The door shuts on Leonard's amusement, silencing any other teasing remarks the older man might have made. As Sam crosses the hospital corridor to the nearest elevator, he reflects on their parting and finds that he is both relieved and comforted. Soon, with a faint smile Kirk is deposited on the first floor; he leaves the hospital with an easy stride, not once noticing if he passed a familiar face at any point during the journey.

From there on, Leonard meets with Sam bi-weekly in a hole-in-the-wall cafe preferred by many of the medical staff. The feeling isn't quite the same between them as it was in the past, but Sam does his best not to think of the past too often. Their friendship, though altered, still has strong roots.

And if Leonard always lets slip one or two comments about Sam's brother during their hour at the cafe, Sam says nothing of it. He just soaks up those words more quickly than anything else Leonard will tell him.

* * *

The summons comes at the start of the second semester. Sam is caught unawares by it but answers it nonetheless, mostly out of curiosity.

"George Kirk," a dark-haired young woman reads from a data padd in her lap. Her outfit is that of a student of psychology with a lab coat thrown over it for good measure, but her posture speaks of years of professionalism. Sam wonders about that, if she is new to the Fleet but experienced at her work or if she is simply adept at acting the part.

In the meantime while he thinks, Sam corrects her on his first name. He asks politely, "Why am I here, ma'am?"

The woman lifts one finely shaped eyebrow at the question. "This is a mandated session."

Inexplicably, Sam is struck by a sense of wrongness, not from her words but from the look in her eyes. "My mandated sessions were discontinued." He had had that talk with Pike right after his return to campus. Sam told the man point-blank that, in light of their heart-to-heart on the shuttle bound for San Francisco, the counseling was a pointless effort. Sam had had to promise of course to bring any problems or worries or stress directly to Pike in lieu of an official visit to the campus counselors.

Had Pike thought better of their agreement later and gone against his word?

In the lapse of silence, the counselor had set aside her padd. She crosses her legs and locks her fingers over a kneecap. With a sigh, she says, eyes suddenly gleaming, "You've caught me. This isn't a mandated session." She smiles at him like there is nothing wrong with her statement. "You're here because I'm curious."

It only takes a second for Sam's confusion to turn into anger. He can think of a reason someone would be curious about him—the same reason people have always been curious about the offspring of George Kirk—and he doesn't like it. Without a word, Sam rises from his chair and heads for the door to the tiny office.

"Your brother," the woman calls casually to his back, "is an interesting man, Sam."

That almost gives him pause—almost. Sam tosses a flippant reply over his shoulder as he reaches for the doorknob. "If this is your version of bait, I think I'll pass."

"So we can't talk about why Jim is afraid of you?"

That takes a hold of him as strongly as a physical grip. Tensed on the threshold, Sam turns back to the woman watching his reaction. "What did you say?" He has taken two steps in her direction before he thinks better of it. "Jimmy isn't afraid of me."

"Of course he is. He's afraid of everything you represent, Sam. You're family. You're that innate trust we all crave and the rejection we fear. No one has a stronger hold over Jim Kirk than you do. The question is... how do you use such power?"

"Who are you?" Sam demands, ignoring her question despite how badly it unsettles him.

She holds out a hand, smiling. "Helen Noel. I suppose you could call me an interested party."

Sam pointedly slips his hands in his pants pockets. "That means you aren't a friend of my brother's."

"No, not precisely."

"Then you should mind your own business, Ms. Noel."

Helen cocks her head. "But I don't intend to. You and your brother are estranged. Why?" After a long moment of silence, she adds curiously, "Is silence a defense mechanism for you, Samuel?"

"If it was, that would beg the question of why I would need to defend myself. Is there a reason you're antagonizing me, Helen?" He doesn't particularly like using her first name but decides she thinks she is playing a game he doesn't know the rules to. The foolish woman. Sam takes another step toward her. "How obsessed, exactly, are you with my brother?"

The amused slant to her mouth falters.

"Did he sleep with you and forget to call the next day?"

"That's none of your business."

"Ah," he murmurs, "but it's a fair question since you're prying into mine."

Helen uncrosses her legs and snatches her data padd from a side table. "Do you know what your profile says about you?"

"I really don't care."

Her mouth curves again, no doubt because she thinks she has found a weak spot in his armor. "You would never have made it far up the chain of command." Helen looks at the padd's screen, reading, "Antisocial, introverted, emotionally detached—in other words, _damaged_."

Sam feels coldly calm, so calm that he is an arm's length from her before she realizes it. He takes the padd out of her hands with a gentleness belying the hard look in his eyes. "I think," he says slowly, "Jim did a good thing when he dumped you."

She wants to lash out at him. He can read the desire to strike out in her face. Frank would look the same way just before he raised his fist or picked up the nearest solid object that could bruise skin.

"Stay away from my brother," Sam tells her. "Stay far away from him, Helen."

"Or?" she challenges.

Sam doesn't answer that because he doesn't need to. He simply snaps the fragile device in his hands into two halves, drops them in her chair, and walks out of the room without once looking back. He briefly considers reporting Noel for abuse of the system for personal gain but decides the repercussions might come back to bear down on his brother rather than on him.

Jimmy has enemies as well as friends, the encounter teaches Sam. He mulls over that new thought for one night before coming to a decision and, hours before his first class begins, pulls out his comm to text Leonard a question. _How many vengeful exes does my brother have?_

Leonard must be awake because Sam's comm dings almost instantly with a reply: _How much time do you got?_ A second later, another message pops up on the heels of that one. _Might as well discuss over breakfast._

Sam names a 24/7 diner he knows Leonard likes and tucks the comm into his back pocket without lingering too long on why he feels so satisfied there might be a reason Jim needs a brother after all.

* * *

Sam has no intention of leaving his room that day until McCoy calls him on a break between a class and a hospital shift and says without preamble, "Jim skipped lunch."

Sam removes the hand that had been across his eyes (a migraine is brewing, the cool darkness of his room doing little to stop it) and sits up in his bed. "What?"

"We were supposed to meet and he didn't show. Go find him."

_Why am I the best choice to do this?_

He is about to voice his doubt when Leonard's voice returns with a note of pleading in it. "Listen, I'm not being a mother-hen. Jim never ditches me without saying anything unless we've had a falling-out, 'n I'd know if we had one of those, don't you think? Just—please, can you look for him?"

Leonard's concern is genuine, and it seems to be catching. "All right. Where should I look?"

The second of silence is an ill omen to Sam.

"There's a place on the south-side of the Bay, a bar called the Red Dragon."

The south-side is a slum, the kind that looks ritzy from far away but is falling to shambles up-close. It's a shadier part of San Francisco where a desperate man might go. Sam can't imagine why Jim would be there. "You're serious?"

"Deadly." McCoy's tone of voice is grim.

Which only serves to make Sam shove his legs into his pants faster. "Red Dragon, got it. I'm going. But, Leonard?"

Leonard stays silent on the other end.

Sam finishes slowly, "My brother better not be there. If he is..." He bites down on the ending to that threat. "Whether he is or isn't, we're going to have a chat about this."

Leonard's reply is clipped, like Sam is far above him in rank and the remark has no choice but to be accepted. "Understood."

Sam hangs up.

* * *

The bar is a glittering mesh of painted glass and faux gold; if it's meant to look like Old China it only succeeds in the huge whiskered paper dragon hanging from the ceiling. Sam feels out of place the moment he walks in. A small man dressed in black stares at him from a chair at the bar counter, but Sam's attention is already pulled elsewhere.

A bar table is up-ended, a few bottles lying broken on the floor. Men are standing in circle; Sam cannot see who they are hitting but he hears the thud of a fist against flesh and the mean laughter that follows it.

He knows it's Jim they are beating. He knows it in his gut, not simply because McCoy sent him there with a certain dread, and the shout bursts out of Sam like a rocket: "HEY!"

Two of the men break the circle to see who's interrupting their fun. Sam strides at them without slowing down, a thrum starting in his chest and working its way into the rest of his body. "Move," he snaps from between his clenched teeth, shoving through the men like they aren't more than random obstacles in his path. And there Jimmy is, in the grasp of a third person; he can barely lift his head in Sam's direction. One of his eyes is swollen shut and blood is dripping off his chin to land on his uniform front.

Sam looks at his brother for a long moment before lifting his eyes to Jim's captor. "You'll let him go."

The guy's grin is mean. "Says who?"

"Says me, asshole."

The thug responds to that, shoving Jim aside as though he isn't more than a rag doll who's lost its stuffing. "What'd you say?"

"_S-Sam._" It's not more than a whisper. Jimmy has managed to get back on his feet from where he'd fallen to his knees. He is bent at the waist like it hurts to straighten up. When Jim lifts a hand, fingers spayed, as if to stall Sam from entering the fight, that hand weaves drunkenly.

"_Sammy._"

In his mind's eye, Sam sees a nine year-old Jimmy saying the same thing, eyes wet as he gingerly crawled into his brother's bed after Frank had gone to bed. For an instant Sam always wanted to throw his little brother out, to spit that the bed was his place, the only place he had to himself, but Jimmy would be hurting and Sam had to cave because he knew his thoughts were ugly and because if Jimmy didn't have him, if they didn't have each other, they had no one.

Little Jimmy is this Jimmy, still hurting and still in need of Sam. Sam feels his knuckles straining to pop as his fists tighten.

The thug laughs, sensing a new game to be had, and flips open a switchblade. "Wanna play now?"

* * *

Every cadet takes basic defense classes. Those in Command, Security & Weaponry, or Special Ops are required to have the advanced courses as well. Sam made it to the intermediate level before he took his leave from Starfleet. Perhaps that wouldn't have made much a difference in how well he could fight if it hadn't been for a particular individual during that last class. The cadet was older than the others though he was a third-year at the time Sam first encountered him. Whether it was because they shared a first name or not, Sam doesn't know but they were paired together as sparring partners more often than not. The instructor yelled at them by last name respectively when he had to—Kirk and Giotto.

Giotto was not a tall man but he was broad through the shoulders and much, much heavier than he looked. In a past life, Sam mused, he might have been a Roman gladiator. Giotto grinned, his teeth a striking white in his darkly tanned face, when Sam let that thought slip out during a sparring match. But to Sam the comment hadn't been meant as a joke: the guy had the skill to match his musculature. No one ever came close to beating Giotto, literally as well as figuratively. It was enough—and painfully so—to keep one's limbs intact for the duration of an hour, class scores be damned.

Giotto was a natural teacher. He corrected Sam's stance, the swing of his fist or kick of his leg; he gave direction when Sam was on the floor in a tangle of sore limbs and misery. The instructor seemed content to let Giotto coach his partner and rarely intervened. Sam often wondered if Giotto wasn't more of a successor to the Defense department than a top student. Would the Fleet want him to stay and train the generations, or would they want him out in space protecting the chain of command at the front lines? Sam wondered which Giotto wanted for himself.

The class was ending in less than fifteen minutes. A few students had given up and headed for the lockers at a limping pace. Giotto preferred sparring until the last second, and so whoever was his partner for that day sparred until the last second too, no matter how many times he tried to claim defeat beforehand. Giotto would simply hoist the poor cadet to his feet and wordlessly resume the proper opening stance for a spar until the other person relented and joined him.

After barely managing to deflect one of his partner's lightning-quick blows, Sam swiped a hand over his sweaty face and returned to his half-crouch in preparation for the next attack. It was very odd then when Giotto dropped his fists instead of resuming the drill and looked Sam over with a critical eye.

"You're a quick thinker," he said as if it wasn't the first time he'd spoken in an hour, "and you've got tight control of your responses, but what happens on the day you lose that control?"

Sam had blinked at his sparring partner because despite his looks and his not-inconsiderable bragging rights, Giotto had little use for words when he wasn't giving advice or explaining a defense technique. Thus Sam's response to the remark was a very un-intelligent "Huh?"

"All it usually takes is for someone to provoke you the wrong way," Giotto continued, like they had conversations on a regular basis. "You lose your focus, and then the fight's over before it's started."

"I won't lose my focus," Sam countered. He glanced at the time display built into the gym wall. "We can stop if you—"

He never finished that sentence. Giotto barreled into him and knocked Sam's feet out from under him. Then he planted his boot on Sam's chest, effectively pinning him to the mat. Sam was stunned.

And then he was angry.

He shoved Giotto's foot off his chest (which gave way with ease) and stood up, demanding, "What the fuck was that?"

"How long are you going to waste my time, kid?" Giotto had asked in his usual blunt way.

That stung in a place Sam didn't realize he could still be wounded; and because of the hurt, he felt angrier.

"What—the—fuck—was that? I thought we were sparring."

"So you're ready to hit me now? Well, I'll let you try," the other cadet continued in a calm tone.

Sam's fists flexed but he took a step back, telling himself, _It's just a class._

Giotto followed no matter how far Sam backed up. By that point, some of their other classmates were watching the unusual display with trepidation. The instructor had given his two students a curious look and then casually turned his back.

That, more than Giotto's sudden aggression, tinted Sam's vision red. If Giotto wasn't going back off, if the instructor didn't give two shits in order to stop him, Sam had no choice.

He threw himself forward into the fight. Not one blow landed, and by the time Giotto had decided toying with him was no longer fun, Sam was breathless and only on his feet due to the strength of his rage. Giotto caught his arm easily—Sam had exhausted his energy too quickly without meaning to—and twisted it behind his back.

Sam wasn't above fighting dirty. He stomped on his captor's foot. But when he pivoted to bring his knee in range of Giotto's stomach, Giotto simply shoved backwards, aimed his fist, and delivered a punch that dropped Sam like a stone. His vision burned white with pain for several seconds before it cleared enough that he could see.

The fight was over in less than three minutes, would have been over sooner if Giotto had intended to knock him down from the beginning. Sam was humiliated but he was also grateful it was over. He sat up and drew a leg towards his chest so he could drape an arm across his knee. His mouth was slick with an iron taste. He wiped off some of the blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of a hand, and ignored the murmuring around him.

Sam wasn't surprised no one wanted to come near him or Giotto. How long would it take for Pike to find out about this? Shit, he'd messed up.

"Class over!" someone bellowed, which was true since it was now two minutes past three. The instructor's swift approach across the gymnasium had the other cadets scattering in all directions; some of them even forgot to go back to the locker room to shower and change. The instructor stopped within a foot of Giotto, looked from him to Sam, and said in his gruff tone, "Clean the blood off the mat before you leave."

Once the gym was empty of the others, Giotto knelt next to Sam and took his chin in hand, turning it to the light. "Anything loose or broken?" he asked. Sam's partner was back, and the bully in Giotto had vanished like he never existed.

Sam probed his teeth with his tongue. "No."

"It'll still swell." Then he let go of Sam. "I'm sorry," he said.

Sam just looked at him.

"Sometimes words can't substitute for action. How'd it feel?"

"What? Getting my ass kicked?" Sam replied with a touch of bitterness.

"Letting go of the control."

The last vestiges of his anger faded as he considered that question. "I lost," he said at last. "But I would have lost the other way too. You're difficult to beat."

A smile ghosted across Giotto's face. "There's a way that will at least give you a chance to fight back."

Sam felt himself perk up a little in response to the offer. "Yeah? How?"

"First things first," Giotto said, helping Sam to his feet. "You're going to Medical."

Sam grunted. No doubt Leonard was going to catch wind of this. He wouldn't hear the end of it for a month. Possibly two.

"After that," his partner promised, "we can sit down and talk."

_What does talking have to do with fighting?_

Giotto must have expected Sam to think that because he said too casually, "Have you ever tried meditation?"

Sam fought his confusion for a second. "No."

"The basics of calming the mind involve compartmentalization of your thoughts. If you can have that kind of clarity in a fight, the rest is just knowing when and where to strike."

"...Wait, you're going to teach me to meditate instead of fight?" Sam was fairly certain he couldn't be connecting the dots correctly, no matter how matter-of-fact the man walking beside him was.

Giotto was grinning openly now. "Nobody's better at meditation than the Vulcans. So no, I'm not going to teach you to meditate. I'm going to take you to the guy who taught me. Then we'll go back to the fighting."

* * *

Looking at the knife, Sam's fists loosen, and he becomes the picture of absolute calm. His breath slows and evens out. Anger he traps by visualizing a ball of furious energy—and all of its negative emotional tendrils—and turning it into a shadowy thought in his mind. The technique is a personal compromise since he could never learn to simply dissolve the anger with logic as a Vulcan would.

Fear—now that is the easy part for Sam. Fear is placed aside. He doesn't want it or need it in a fight. His meditation teacher had remarked, slanting his eyebrow in a fashion that typically indicated his scientific interest in an anomaly, Sam has the uncanny ability to ignore the baser emotions which plague most species. Sam had replied that fear is simply one of those feelings he knows well, and he long ago learned it only made him more vulnerable to that which he feared. (That the emotion had also played a hand in ruining his life, he did not mention to then-Lieutenant-Commander.)

"Not so tough now," sneers the man, brandishing his weapon.

Giotto's advice is like a voice whispering in his ear. _First, disarm your opponent without touching him if you can. Put him off his game._

Sam smiles, a great big grin that could belong to a kid who just walked into the galaxy's largest candy store. He flicks a finger in the direction of the switchblade. "Really? Is that all you've got?"

The man's look falters momentarily, gaining an edge of confusion before that confusion is quickly hidden. He calls Sam's bluff by diving forward with a snarl; his hand is fast, whipping outward like a snake to strike at Sam's side.

_If the weapon is small and not run by voltage, your best bet is to let him come at you. When he does, block, chop and—this is the important part, Kirk—break_.

At the time of the instruction, Sam had thought it might be difficult to break someone's arm. Turns out, it isn't. The man goes down howling and clutching his wrist. Sam retrieves the dropped knife at his feet and closes the switchblade, tucking it into one of his pants pockets.

That, of course, makes the other two gangsters let his brother go (who they had been holding back from intervening with something like a misguided pride in their fellow man) and head toward him. The guy who had been at the bar counter closes in too.

Sam knows even with his training and his sharp reflexes, a fight of three against one simply requires a single moment of inattention on his part to leave him broken and bleeding on the floor. This time he dodges aside, catching the man on the very end as he does, and pulls his feet out from under him. With a shove in the right direction, the man pinwheels with a shout of surprise into the other two.

It gives Sam the second he needs to grab a hold of the back of Jimmy's uniform collar and drag him into a run for the door. Jim tries to say something, maybe a protest, and Sam doesn't have time to hear it so he snaps, "Shut up and _run, you idiot!_"

If Jim ever grew into his height, his behavior has certainly regressed now. The kid is all awkward limbs tangling into Sam's as they practically fall through the doorway into a heap on the street sidewalk. Angry voices echo behind them. Cursing, Sam rolls to his feet and jerks Jim up along with him. Jim staggers sideways and Sam catches him, rights him and—as the thugs come barreling through the exit—pushes his brother back into a run. "Go, go, go!" he cries.

They pound down the sidewalk, narrowly missing a street vendor's cart and a little old lady with an oversized purse which Sam ducks when she swings it at his head. Jim's not in the right condition to navigate the streets with one eye so Sam lengths his stride just enough to take lead. As they come abreast of the opening to a side alley he takes a hold of Jim's sleeve and jerks him into the passage. In short order, they meet a fence. Sam hooks his fingers into the metal links, asking, "Need a boost?"

Jim just snorts at him, resulting in a gross spray of blood on Sam's shirt sleeve, and begins climbing the fence like a monkey. Sam cannot help but grin at a memory of a barely out-of-toddlerhood Jimmy stuck in a wide oak tree. Sam, not knowing what to do, had called the fire department to get him down.

The crash of trash cans in the distance and the sound of running feet bring him sharply into the present again. Sam heaves himself up and over the fence, landing on the other side in a crouch.

The gangsters, who must be slow as molasses or just plain not used to chasing people, holler coarse threats at the top of their lungs when they spy the Kirk brothers on the other side of the fence. Jim, with a display of bloody teeth, returns their threats with an obscene hand gesture.

Sam wraps his fingers around his brother's wrist and tugs him away from the fence. "We don't waste time to gloat, " he chastises in a voice that sounds eerily like Pike. Jim probably decides this is sound advice when the first thug slams into the fence and starts to climb it.

They're running again.

Sam has an idea of where he wants to hole away and hide, but the first matter of import is making it down to the docks. Jim's breaths become labored and wheezy the longer they run but he does his best to keep up with the ruthless pace wordlessly, face pale and tight-lipped against pain. Sam knows they cannot afford to stop, yet his heart spasms when his brother's gait begins to fall out of sync in increasingly shorter intervals. They break free from the streets toward the boardwalk, the noisy horns of the old steam-ships occasionally blocking out the sound of pursuit.

"C'mon, Jimmy," Sam urges his brother, taking Jim's arm. "C'mon, almost there."

Jim, like Sam, would probably rather die than admit he can't go on.

With a last sprint, they leap their way down a set of concrete stairs and dart under a short drawbridge and into a long tunnel-drain abandoned decades ago. Sam doesn't wait for Jim to lose his footing once they reach the end, just slips his arm around the back of his brother's shoulder blades and helps hoist him up the embankment.

At the top, Jim lies on the dirt, face-down, trying to catch his breath. Sam rolls to his side and slips part of the way back down the embankment to see if they were followed. Then he scrambles to his brother's side again and places a hand on Jim's back.

"You okay?" he asks. He interprets Jim's abbreviated grunt as _I'll live_. "Can you get up?"

Jim answers by pushing himself off the ground, however slowly. He doesn't look amused when Sam offers to carry him on his back. Sam catches Jim by the collar when Jim starts to limp in the wrong direction. "Not there," he tells his brother. "Stay with me."

Surprisingly, Jim doesn't argue.

* * *

The owner of the shop is startled by their sudden appearance. Sam sends him an apologetic look and hustles his brother down the narrow aisle of two looming bookshelves. "Sit," he orders when they come to a small reading area with three chairs.

Jim drops into a chair with a pained expression, but the look dissipates slightly as his gaze wanders over their surroundings. "Books," he says, sounding dazed.

"Lots of books," Sam agrees. "Stay here."

Jim makes a huff that turns into a groan. "Not... goin'where."

Sam takes his word for it. Hurrying back to the front of the store, he implores of the owner, "Please, do you have a first aid kit?"

The owner nods and retrieves it. "What's this about?" he asks Sam as he hands it over.

"Run-in with a local gang."

The grey-haired man squints one eye at him contemplatively. "E'pect you didn't bring the trouble with you?"

"No, sir."

"Good. There's a towel in the bathroom. Just throw it away when you're done."

"Thank you."

Jim is poking at the cover of a book titled _Robinson Crusoe _when Sam returns loaded down with medical supplies. Sam cannot help but lash out at him sharply with "No, don't!" when Jim tries to open the first aid kit.

Withdrawing his hand like he thinks Sam will bite it, Jim eyes him and counters (or rather slurs), "I can do it m'self."

"No," Sam insists, forcing himself to sound calmer. "You won't be able to wrap the bandages tightly enough." It's a lame excuse but Sam can't think of anything better.

Unfortunately, it turns out that Sam's skill at wrapping bandages is poor indeed. A few minutes later, he and Jim stare at an empty bandage roll and what used to be Jim's left hand.

"Looksss 'ike a mummy," Jimmy says, blinking at it.

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. "I should call McCoy?"

"Yuuup."

Sam straightens from his crouch with a grimace at the protesting of his legs muscles from squatting too long. He turns to head back to the shop front to ask to make a call when Jim's overly bandaged appendage bumps into Sam's leg.

"Hey," Sam's brother says, his smile small, tentative and shaky at the edges, "good try."

Sam nods once, moving away quickly so Jimmy won't see him cry.

* * *

After the incident of the Red Dragon, it's a little easier to greet his brother when Sam sees him. The words used between them at a time aren't enough to qualify as a conversation but Sam is okay with that.

He learns from Leonard, who on pain of death makes Sam swear to never repeat the secret to anyone, that Jim is in debt to a loan shark because the Academy's monthly stipend can't fully support him and Jim refuses to touch their family money. Sam has no qualms about touching it on his brother's behalf, however (though he rarely uses it for himself because his father's blood bought that money, so in a way he gets Jim's aversion to it) and forwards what is owed to the owner of the Red Dragon in large installments with the understanding that if anyone lays another hand on Jim, the authorities will be confiscating that business (legitimate and otherwise) by the next day. The owner respects Sam's gall to blackmail him, and they strike an accord.

It takes Jim a few months to catch on to the lack of violence but when he does, Leonard is told to inform Sam (which he quotes with a twinkle in his eyes), "You are a goober-head and your sucky bandaging skills SUCK. Kirk out."

Sam and Leonard spend a long time laughing over that.

* * *

Spring passes into early summer. All through the graduation of the senior class and into the after-party Sam is unable to keep a dopey smile off his face. At least, that's what Leonard tells him.

"Somebody'd think you just been on that stage yourself," McCoy ribs him.

"Shut up," Sam responds in a good-natured tone, eyes fixed across the crowded ballroom.

"_Which_," Leonard goes on to say stubbornly, "would have been the case if you didn't play hooky for a year."

"Really, shut up, Leonard," says Sam more firmly as he glances at the man standing next to him. "Don't ruin Aurelan's mood."

Leonard rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath, "As if I'd dare."

A waiter floats by them with a tray full of exotic (and undoubtedly potent) drinks. Sam nods in the direction of the liquor. "Why aren't you drinking?"

Leonard points to a huddle of cadets, most of them female. "See that there? That's why. Somebody has to be sober to deal with the aftermath."

Sam spies the person in the middle of that huddle and agrees silently. "He can't possibly go home with all of them."

Leonard's eyes roll heavenward again. "Clearly you don't know how Jim's brain works." Then Leonard pokes him in the side. "Hey, why don't you go over there?"

"What? Why?"

"You know... I'm the sympathetic, sometimes bitchy best friend. _You're _the brother. You're supposed to find ways to make him miserable." Leonard grins like a mischievous little boy. "C'mon, steal his thunder. Put some of those rumors to good use."

Sam's fingers find the end of his jacket sleeve and fiddle with it. "I can't do that."

"Aurelan won't care."

Heat rises along the back of Sam's neck. "I told you, we're not dating."

"So you're going to skip straight to marriage? Good luck with that," Leonard drawls and snakes out a hand to catch a blue-colored brandy off a passing waiter's tray.

"Who's getting married?"

Sam switches from hot to cold in turns at the sound of that voice. His reply isn't the smartest thing he has ever thought up. "Um, Aurelan, hi there, congrat—"

Leonard waves his drink-laden hand between Aurelan and Sam. "You two are."

Aurelan slips her arm through Sam's and leans into him, eyes still fixed on Leonard. A smile might be playing about her mouth. "We are?"

"Of course you are," Sam's worst friend in the _entire _galaxy says indignantly, "whenever Sammy here stops tripping over his tongue and starts courtin' you like a proper gentleman."

Sam is bright red, he just knows that he is. The moment he has the opportunity he is going to take Leonard out back, kill him, and bury his body on campus grounds. Then he will erase the man's records from the database and somehow explain to his brother that McCoy's death was very necessary and he'll just have to find another brilliant doctor to be his CMO on the day he becomes captain of a starship.

Damn it.

Aurelan is patting the top of his hand. "Sam?"

He blinks at her.

"You looked very far away. What were you thinking about?"

"Murder," his mouth answers before his brain becomes involved.

For some reason that makes her laugh. "Leonard was only teasing you."

"I doubt that," Sam mutters darkly.

Aurelan pulls her arm from his and stops patting his hand. Her brown eyes study him for a long minute. "Then what should we do, Sam?" she finally asks, tone serious.

Why does he always struggle with words in the presence of Aurelan? Why isn't this easy? He could hit himself after he replies, "You're leaving."

Aurelan nods. "I received my posting last week. Sam..." Her words are soft but full of hope. "Will you forget me when I'm gone?"

"I couldn't," he replies immediately. The thought seems impossible.

Her hand lifts to touch his cheek. "Do you remember what I told you, that you can't choose who I love?"

"Aurelan." _Don't say it._

"I think I want to love you, George Samuel Kirk. I think I can wait a little longer, too." Then she taps the end of his nose, warning him, "But not too long, mister—only until you graduate next year and then you'd better come find me!"

"Yes, ma'am," Sam says, duplicating her serious tone and taking her hand partly so she can't tap his nose again and partly because he wants to savor being this close to her. He drops a kiss to her knuckles. "I promise."

She extracts her hand from his with a faint blush. "I guess you can be charming when you want to be."

"Only for you, Aurelan."

Her happiness is infectious. Sam finds himself grinning.

Like a frightening jack-in-the-box Leonard pops back into the scene with little warning. "It's about damn time! I call dibs on bein' the godfather to all the little babies." His voice is slightly louder than normal and his accent thicker.

Sam eyes McCoy. "Exactly how much of that brandy have you had in the last few minutes?"

"Enough that I can enjoy this party." Leonard grabs Sam's shoulder and turns him to face another direction. "Now I'm drinkin' you have to be responsible for Jim. Go on." He gives Sam a none-too-gentle shove. Aurelan is snickering behind her hand. "Think he's gone after Gaila again, so you'd better get to 'em before her roommate does."

"I'm not," Sam says stubbornly. "I won't."

No one seems to believe him. Leonard wraps an arm around Aurelan and waves his drink animatedly in the air as he talks to her and steers her into the crowd of celebrating graduates. They don't spare a backward glance for Sam.

Sam stuffs his hands into his pants pockets and trudges to the other side of the ballroom. The last time he had been sent on a mission to break up his brother's sex-capades, he had literally caught Jim with his pants down. Apparently no one has any regard for how traumatizing that can be.

Sam almost approaches the circle of women Jim had previously been trying to impress to ask them of his brother's whereabouts but thinks better of it when they spy him coming and look too thrilled to have another Kirk in their midst—_especially _the Kirk with a mysterious reputation of sexual prowess. Jim's reputation, it can be said, is anything but mysterious.

Broom closet, he decides. Start with the broom closet first, then work his way to the weirder places two people (or more?) could be copulating.

In that instant, Sam both hates and loves his life.


	4. Epilogue

**Make sure you have read Part Three!**

* * *

"He failed."

"Is he depressed?" Sam whispers into his comm, angling his body so the librarian cannot see him talking. Technically he is supposed to be studying for mid-year exams like every other senior who has even a glimmer of a wish to graduate. The instructors, oddly, of his classes are more gleeful than he has ever seen them. Maybe tortuous assignments and long-winded lectures are actually a hazing ritual for students preparing to enter active service in the Fleet. Sam has less nightmares about dying in space than he does about exam papers sucking the life force out of him.

McCoy's snort of amusement can be heard by the cadets two tables away. They turn to glare in Sam's direction at the interruption. "Failure doesn't make Jim depressed. It makes him _more _determined to win."

"I can talk to him," Sam offers.

"What're you gonna say that I haven't, Sammy? Stop trying to beat an unbeatable test? Be glad Command is still tolerant of your insanity and hasn't kicked you out on your ass?"

_I'd say_, Sam thinks, _have you thought about re-writing the program? _He probably shouldn't mention that to Leonard, who likes to think Jim (and Sam) are restrained by moral compunction like normal people.

Evidently Leonard doesn't expect Sam to answer. "No, it's better not to poke the proverbial bear... but why don't you stop by tonight? Maybe if we're both getting drunk, Jim will get drunk too and forget about this Kobayashi Maru business."

_I doubt that._Sam is reminded of the time Jimmy ate nothing but Fruit Loops for a month because the box promised him a retro twenty-first century version of a Captain America sticker in return for the purchase of twenty boxes. "It might be awkward if I'm there."

"Don't you think it's about time you two got over yourselves? It's like y'all are twins—blue-eyed, pigheaded twins!" McCoy's following "_Hmph_" relays what he really thinks about that. "I get off at eighteen-hundred. I'll swing by your place then."

Sam is left staring at a message on his comm that says _call ended_.

Someone clears his throat. Sam looks up to find the librarian's attention upon him, the tiny row of eyes in his oblong face glaring. Meekly, he apologizes for disrupting the librarian's domain and hunkers behind his textbook like he intends to make up for his bad behavior the rest of the day by being extra studious.

In actuality, Sam collects the rest of his belongings and departs the moment the librarian has left to terrorize the couple giggling behind some bookshelves. As he winds his way back to his room in his head he is developing a theory on how to break into the mainframe to take a look at that test which stands in his brother's way. Wouldn't it be something if Jimmy could show this entire Academy exactly why Kirks don't believe in no-win scenarios?

Maybe there's something Sam can do about that.

* * *

"So..." Sam says.

Jim's fingers fidget on the end of a mostly full beer bottle. He has yet to look Sam in the eyes, even though they've been in the same room for over two hours.

Sam checks for the second time that Leonard is passed out across the table before he coughs pointedly. "So," he begins again, "about that test..."

Jim looks across the room at some infinitesimal point no one but he can discern. "I'm going take it again."

Sam is not sure why Jim thinks he needs to sound so defiant. "I wasn't planning to tell you not to."

Jim slants an unreadable look at him. "Pike said I shouldn't."

Sam almost laughs. "'Course he did. How's it going to look when a cadet shows up every man who ever made Captain and didn't pass that stupid test?"

Now Sam's brother is staring at him with interest. "You think I can pass it?"

Sam leans over the table, lowering his voice just in case Leonard's snoring isn't as real as it seems. (Though the drooling looks pretty real. Sam feels guilty about forcing that last drink on the unsuspecting man simply so he could talk to Jim about the Kobayashi Maru.) "Here's the thing: I had a chance to look at the programming code behind the scenario, and it gave me an idea."

Jim appears to forget that talking to Sam is a strange affair and inches forward to listen. That pleases Sam immensely, and he continues on to outline a subroutine he had in mind.

* * *

Jim passes the Kobayashi Maru with a broad grin on his face and a mouth full of apple.

The cadets who had placed odds on Jim's ability to find a way around the no-win scenario are celebrating their newfound wealth at the local taverns of San Francisco, and those who thought it couldn't be done are left scratching their heads in wonder. Sam hopes those idiots only have to learn this hard lesson once: _never_ bet against James Tiberius Kirk.

For Sam's part, he floats around campus looking extremely proud.

* * *

"This session has been called to resolve a troubling matter. James T. Kirk, step forward."

Sam tries standing up but Jim's hand is forcing him back into his seat under the pretense of needing Sam's shoulder to leverage himself to his feet. On the opposite side of Jim, Leonard says his friend's name. McCoy sounds grim and strangely resolved.

Jim's smile is crooked and a complete bluff. "My fault, my problem, Bones." Then Jim is sliding away from them through the row of seated cadets and down the auditorium steps to meet the demands of the tribune.

Sam's fists flex as he watches his brother, undaunted, take a stand behind a podium. Barnett's words are garbled accusations in his ears. He wants to go down there. He _will _go down there. He'll tell those bastards who really dared to touch their precious test and—

Leonard takes Jim's empty seat and drops his hand to Sam's arm. "Don't you move," he warns Sam in a fierce undertone.

"I won't let him do this."

The look Leonard gives him is sardonic. "Since when do either of us let Jim do anything?" His voice has a sharp edge when he adds, "'N before you throw yourself to the wolves, I ought to remind you that Jim took the test knowing full well what you had done."

"He told you that?"

"Didn't have to. I know his guilty face when I see it. My point is he's got responsibility in this too."

Sam jerks his arm out from under McCoy's hard grip and half-rises from his seat. "Then why," he says furiously, "am I not standing there with him?"

"You idiot, sit down!" Leonard latches onto the back of Sam's uniform, yanking Sam back into the seat with surprising strength. The man whispers harshly, "You're gonna keep your ass right there 'cause I promised Jim I'd stop you! You're graduatin' and gettin' on one of those damn shuttles to Aurelan if it's the last thing Jim and I do!"

"You asshole!" Sam snarls back.

Their anger with each other is diverted by the sound of Jim's voice ringing clearly through the auditorium. Jim is saying, "I believe I have the right to face my accuser directly."

A man—the only Vulcan Starfleet has in its employ—stands in the audience. Sam is certain he's never hated anyone so much in his life. As if the object of his hatred knows how Sam currently loathes him, the Vulcan glances in Sam's direction before he descends the stairs. The minute arch of his eyebrow could have been saying, _Your emotional projection is out of control, Cadet Kirk. Did I teach you nothing?_

"Who's that pointy-eared bastard?" McCoy mutters.

Sam just grinds his teeth. He feels helpless watching while Jimmy's argument is circumvented by Spock's logic. Then Spock mentions their father's heroic death, words perhaps not meant to wound but still skirting too close to the line. Jim doesn't flinch, saying, "I don't think you like the fact that I beat your test," but Sam could stand up and scream.

At that point, Leonard produces a hypospray out of a side pocket and threatens to inject Sam with a concoction that could down an enraged elephant seal. "Don't make me drug you in full view of your fans!"

"I'm going to tell them," Sam grits out. "It's not over until I tell them it was me."

Leonard opens his mouth to argue but doesn't have the chance. An aide had handed Barnett a message, and now the Admiral relays the distress call from Vulcan, a broadcast that will in a matter of minutes spread like wildfire from the auditorium to the whole of the campus. The hearing is summarily dismissed and all personnel including the cadets are told to report to Shuttle Hangar One.

Sam and McCoy fight their way through the traffic of red-uniformed cadets flowing toward the exits; some of the cadets see Sam barreling down the stairs in an effort to reach the bottom of the auditorium and flatten themselves to the side so they aren't run over.

Sam immediately shoves a finger into his brother's chest when he is range to do so. "You're not getting expelled because of me, Jimmy!"

Jim stiffens at Sam's accusatory tone, and his look turns challenging. "Who says it's because of you?" he retorts.

Sam squares his shoulders and mirrors Jim's stance. To the side of them, Leonard snaps, "For god's sake, are you both deaf? Now is not the time for a pissing contest!"

His attention is only for his brother—the brother he lost once and refuses to lose again. "You are not leaving this time," he pronounces with painful clarity, swept up in a sweet rage and a bitter fear. "I will not let you."

Something shifts in his brother's face then, a recognition, an understanding. "Sam."

"If you try..." Sam lets the threat hang in the air between them.

Jim smiles slowly. "I won't."

Can he trust in that answer? A demand has to be met first. "_Promise me._"

Jim reaches out to touch Sam, hesitating mid-way through the act but in the end settling his hand at the curve of Sam's shoulder. "Okay, I promise."

The relief he feels is so strong it cannot be expressed with words. He blinks and blames the overhead lighting for blinding him enough to bring tears to his eyes. Jimmy, he realizes, must be affected by the light too.

"Just great!" Leonard shouts in their ears. The interruption is almost like a physical knock to their heads. "Congratulations on your goddamned, _very poorly _timed reconciliation!"

Sam and Jim look at the incensed McCoy.

"We're in a goddamn crisis!"

"Oh," Sam says.

"Oops," Jim echoes the sentiment.

They take off toward the shuttle hangar at a dead run.

* * *

A Commander Sam can't place by name is reading off the ship assignments. He barely hears his own name and where he is supposed to go because he is holding his breath for his brother's name. Jim technically shouldn't be sent into space if he's on academic suspension but still Sam feels antsy, worried. He is torn between wanting Jim to stay grounded and also wanting Jim to experience his first moment on a Fleet vessel at Sam's side.

The Commander wishes everyone godspeed and then the group around Sam is breaking up, murmuring goodbyes to one another and filing toward the shuttles that will take them to the docking station orbiting Earth. Sam sees McCoy curse under his breath and follow Jim's dash after the Commander to find out why his name wasn't on the roster.

As the Commander answers Jim's question Jim stills, the very line of his body suddenly dejected. That has Sam pushing his way toward his brother.

Leonard is saying as Sam approaches, "...board'll rule in your favor. Most likely." McCoy glances at Sam. "Look, Jim, I got to go."

Sam stops next to his brother and offers his hand to McCoy without planning to say anything. But somehow the words are there when he needs them most, and a snap decision is made. "Good luck up there." He can feel Jim's confusion.

Maybe Leonard is confused too. "You were assigned a ship, Sam."

"Sure," Sam agrees mildly, "but your job will be harder than mine, I imagine—especially if you're tending to a terribly sick patient."

Leonard just looks at him funny and turns away, cutting across the hangar for the nearest shuttle. Sam waits, slightly nervous beneath his calm features, and is immensely relieved when McCoy's stride falters at the steps of the shuttle. Glad McCoy finally picked up on the suggestion before it was too late, Sam turns to his brother. He hesitates.

Jim looks at him, jaw rigid because of a decision he doesn't like that he has to accept and unhappiness in his eyes. But Aurelan was right; there is no (and maybe never was) blame.

_It's okay now_, Sam wants to tell him. Instead he warns his brother softly, "I'm going to hug you."

Jim loses his lost look for a moment. "Huh?"

Sam figures it's the best invitation he might ever have so he takes it, heart pounding. The hug is brief—far too brief and somewhat stiff—but it settles some things inside Sam that have been grating together for a long time. When the brothers pull apart, they don't look at each other and rub at their noses.

"Going now," Sam murmurs.

"Yeah," Jim says, and the answer is given absently because McCoy is crossing back in their direction and Jim is probably wondering why.

"Goodbye, Jimmy."

"Bye," his brother answers, the echo of the word drowned out by a startled squawk of "Bones, where are we going?"

Sam watches his brother being dragged away, for once at peace with himself. Leonard knows how to care for Jim, and Sam trusts that he will. Pike too, because Pike will recognize the value of having Jim onboard the _USS Enterprise_. If Sam's lucky, this parting of theirs will be brief.

Then he goes to the shuttle that will take him to the first starship he will have ever set foot on, wondering what the _USS Antares _will meet when she faces the unknown.

**The End**


End file.
